


who needs a heart (when a heart can be broken)

by runnyc33



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:04:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runnyc33/pseuds/runnyc33
Summary: what's your moment?





	who needs a heart (when a heart can be broken)

There is a moment.

It lingers, impossibly still, suffocating.

And there, on the edge, she stands, teetering between bright possibility and earth-shattering heartbreak.

There’s a moment when she closes her eyes and leaps to one side or the other, with no idea what waits below.

This is that moment.

And she jumps.

* * *

His arms catch her easily, wrapping sturdily around her body.

“I’ve got you,” he says, his breath tickling her skin as he lowers her.  The rasps of their blades and the gasps of breaths are the only sounds in the quiet rink.  Her eyes still closed, she leans her forehead against his, her hands wrapped loosely around his biceps as they glide slowly across the ice.  She’s not sure yet where she’s landed.

When he pushes away from her and skates to the edge of the boards, she knows.  She watches his back as he leans over to grab his water bottle, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin.

She bites her lip hard, the pinpoint of pain blossoming from where her skin is compressed between white teeth.  Her gaze shifts towards the dark stands where she knows there’s a banner of them standing on a podium, bright gold medals around their necks, emblazoned with the names Virtue & Moir.  It’s too dark for her to see the brilliant smiles on their faces.

There’s a moment, where she had to decide, and she chose wrong.

* * *

His lips are on hers, much softer than she ever thought possible for a boy.  The pressure shifts, deepening, and instinctively she matches it.  Her hand lightly traces his jaw as his tangles in her hair, pulling slightly, leading.  For one glorious shining moment – they move in just as much harmony off the ice as on it.

A hoot of a spectator breaks the spell, and she pulls away, sitting back onto her heels.  Her cheeks glow as she remembers that she’s sitting in a circle of teenagers, celebrating the end of a competition, drunk off cheap beer and vodka nicked from a parent’s bar.  The group of twenty is crowded tight in the narrow space they’ve managed to create by shoving aside the two double beds, an empty beer bottle in the middle of them.

He sits directly across from her.

She blinks hard when he wipes the back of his hand across his lips.

“So.  That’s what it’s like,” he says, eyes on her.

She folds her hand on her lap, glancing away from him to the clock.  10:32.  The red numbers melt into the hotel’s gaudy orange and yellow decor.

She leans back against the bed behind her, painting a smile across her face as Kaitlyn spins the bottle and it lands on Ashley.  Kaitlyn’s mouth falls open, eyes wide in distress, before her expression morphs, reverent, as Ashley slowly crawls towards her, hips swinging lightly.  Kaitlyn’s eyes drift close, the edges of her lips curling slightly, when Ashley leans in.

She glances away.  _10:34._

* * *

Crisp night air floods her senses.  It rushes through the rolled-down window and teases tendrils of hair from her bun, leaving them fluttering in the wind.  It whispers across her skin, cool and refreshing.  It smells faintly of the water and of pine, clean and alive. 

Her fingers tap the steering wheel.  The highway disappears into the blackness of the night, twin beams from the headlights illuminating only a hundred meters in front of her.

A snore breaks the calm, and she glances across at him.  His body is sprawled across the fully reclined passenger’s seat, one foot up on the dash, the other pulled underneath him.

She looks away quickly.

One weekend off, and he spent his coaching the kids at the rink before spending late nights with the boys.  One weekend off, and she spent hers diligently researching and writing a ten-page essay for her psychology class before dosing off rereading her favorite novel.

Night and day.

Her foot presses down on the accelerator, inching toward the floorboard.  The odometer creeps steadily upwards: 120 kph, 130, 140, 150…

When the needle passes 160 kph, the truck’s engine rumbles lightly, groaning with exertion.  She keeps it there, needle wavering right at 160, and extends her hand out the window, drifting in through the wind.  It feels weightless, soaring next to her.  She wonders, if she went fast enough, could she feel just as light?  A smile spreads across her face, imagining flying through the wind, dancing on the clouds, light as a feather.

His hand falls on her forearm, heavy, squeezing slightly.

She looks at him, and his gaze travels from her face to the odometer.  The message is clear.

_Let up._

She does.

* * *

The door bangs shut behind her, the noise of a rowdy house party fading away.  She chases him, shedding her shoes to run barefoot, as he quickly strides down the driveway.  Reaching out, she grabs his left arm, forcing him to turn towards her.

His face is dark, impenetrable.

She takes his right hand, the bloody knuckles shining under the light of the streetlamps.  When he tries to tug it out of her reach, her grip tightens, until his skin shines white under the pressure of her fingers.  He relents.

She examines the wound carefully, tilting it slightly, before bringing his hand up to her lips, brushing a single kiss against the broken skin.  His fingers twitch slightly in hers.  Their eyes meet for a brief second when she drops his hand, before he whirls, storming away.

_You shouldn’t have done that._

The words float in the night air, thick between them.  She doesn’t know if he said it or her.

Stoically, she watches his retreating figure until he turns a corner and disappears from her sight.  Her feet are cold against the pavement.

* * *

The living room is dark, only faintly illuminated by the headlights of cars passing by.  Shadows loom, curling possessively around the sole two figures.

He’s on his knees in front of her, his face buried against her stomach, arms wrapped around her body, pulling her closer.  The tears soak through her shirt.  Her shoulders are shrugged upwards, her hands floating inches above his body.

_Please_.  It’s hardly a word anymore.  It’s twisted, an inhuman sound, whispered, ragged.  Keening.  _Please._   It floats out of him on an exhale, burning her skin.  It twists around them, lashing them together, leaving marks.  _Please_.

She’s shaking her head repeatedly, she realizes, her body deciding before her mind.  Her hands quiver slightly.

Against the chorus, a single word cuts through, spoken softly.

“No.”

* * *

It’s a perfect day.  The sun shines brightly, not a cloud in the sky.

He stands on the cliff’s edge, jostling with his buddies, hooting and hollering as each of them takes their turn jumping into the lake’s turquoise water fifteen meters below.

She pulls his light green button-up shirt around her, insulating her from the light breeze.  His scent surrounds her, and she breathes deeply.  Her legs are curled under her on the quilt she and her friends spread on a sunny patch of grass a distance away from the boys.  Her friends’ voices ebb and wane in conversation, in time with the waves below, but her gaze is fixed on him.

She’s on her feet, running, before he even hits the water.

Teetering on the edge of the cliff, he’d misjudged.  His jump was just slightly too far to the left, his trajectory sending him into the path of rocks scattered just below the surface.

Shrugging off his shirt, she jumps, hitting the water well before anyone else.  Her frame cuts strong strokes through waves, the training from her one lifeguard class– from the summer she was trying to be a normal teenager with a normal summer job – kicking in.

When she reaches him, he’s still conscious.  That’s worse, she thinks, when he cries out in pain as she maneuvers his body so she can toe him to shore, trying to preserve c-spine as best as she can.  The bright flashing lights of an ambulance waiting urges her to move even faster.

_Please_ , she thinks with each stroke.  _Please.  I love him.  Please._

Her muscles scream with pain, in more anguish than during even the worst of the compartment syndrome.  _I love him._   He’s speaking, his voice cracking and weak, but she’s praying too hard to whatever deity might listen to register the words.  _Please._

The EMTs splash through shallow water towards them, backboard in hand, and as one takes over maintain c-spine, another pulls her away.

She stands still, the water lapping around her calves.  A sentinel watching as the three-person team works, their navy EMS uniforms dark with lake-water and sweat and his blood.

It’s not until he’s loaded in the ambulance that she realizes what he was saying.

_“I love you too.”_

There’s a moment, Tessa thinks, and that was it.

**Author's Note:**

> after some reflection, i decided a few moments of this piece deserved some more attention. i'm very sorry to those of you who received notifications a piece had posted but were unable to read it then! i hope this lived up to your expectations.
> 
> as always, thanks to the glgc.


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